


Ember

by sciencefictioness



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drunk Kisses, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-26 18:16:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17751026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Arthur is so goddamn beautiful, flames shining in his eyes, mouth wet with whiskey.  He palms the stray drops away with the back of his hand, busted knuckles scraping over a split lip.John stares with his heart in his throat and his guts tied in knots, liquor making everything soft around the edges.  Arthur catches his gaze for a moment, smiling wider and rolling his eyes at whatever Bill was rambling about before looking away.  He pulls out a cigarette, striking a match on the bottom of his boot. Lifts it to his lips and lights it, tossing the spent match into the campfire, lips pursing around the end as he takes a drag.  The cherry flares, and fades; John feels wild.He can’t stop watching.  Thinks of Arthur cleaning his gun.  Arthur picking a lock. Sketching in the pages of his journal, lost in the lines; good with his hands, so intent. John thinks about what it’s like to be on the other end of focus, Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he cleans blood off of John’s face, ready to stitch him back together.He’s never more real than when Arthur is looking at him that way;  like he is all that matters.





	1. Cherry

There’s sand in his mouth.  The sun in his eyes. It’s too hot, and too bright, and John can’t fucking breathe.

 

The sound of the gunshot is louder than his heartbeat, but not by much.  Arthur’s head jerks to the side, hard and fast; like he’s taken a slap to the face.

 

Like he’s taken a goddamn bullet.

 

John is wide-eyed as blood sprays into the air, his ears ringing, everything far away.  Arthur drops back into cover but John doesn’t know if it’s something he’s done deliberately or if that’s just where he’s fallen.

 

Just where he’s laying, eerily still, the ground underneath him gone wet and vivid red.

 

“Arthur!”

 

John shouts but there’s no answer, the din of the firefight roaring all around them, gunsmoke filling his lungs.   

 

He can see it so clearly it feels like a knife in his stomach; Arthur dead in the dirt, eyes staring off into nothing.  Right there under John’s hands.

 

So far away he’ll never be able to reach him, all for a pair of chests in the back of a stagecoach and a bag of cash and jewelry.  It isn’t enough.

 

There is nothing John can steal and no one he can save and no place he can go that would ever be enough to justify this— Arthur bleeding out into grass.

 

His whole goddamn world, gone in an instant, and John never even got to kiss him.

 

Arthur is all that matters, and John isn’t sure when that happened, but it hurts down under his skin in places he didn’t know could ache.

 

He crouches, stumbling around the little stand of trees that separates him from Arthur, careful not to pop up above the overturned wagons they’ve been using as shooting blind.  It’s an awkward scramble, pistol clenched tight in his fist, heart caught in his throat.

 

“Arthur!”  John calls again, hands trembling as Arthur comes into view.

 

Alive.  

 

_ Alive,  _ sitting on the ground looking dazed, a vicious gash streaking bloody across one side of his face.  Not from a knife; a graze from a bullet.

 

An inch away from putting Arthur in the ground, and keeping him there forever.  Arthur blinks up at John in confusion— there’s another scrape on his temple that wasn’t there before, like he hit his head on the side of the wagon on his way down.  

 

“John.”  

 

He sounds forlorn.  John reaches out and puts his hand on Arthur’s throat just under his jaw.  His skin is warm. His heart thrums against John’s palm, rabbit-fast with adrenaline.  John can see his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Arthur smacks John’s hand away, picking up his hat where from the ground and putting it back on his head.

 

“I’m alright.  Just a scratch.  Don’t worry about me.”

 

Glass shatters somewhere off to their left.  A whooshing noise, a rush of heat. Someone’s tossing fire bottles, and John doesn’t know if it’s Sean or one of the O’Driscolls, but it doesn’t really matter; fire is fire.  They need to move, and they need to move  _ now.   _

 

“Buy us some time.  Just like I taught you,” Arthur says, tapping one finger against his temple and then pawing blood out of his eyes.  He’s pale, and sweaty, weaving even sitting on the ground.

 

If he could do it himself he wouldn’t be asking.  John nods, feeding bullets into his pistol without looking away; he’s not as good as Arthur, but he’s better than the goddamn O’Driscolls, and that’s all they need right now.  John stands up, breathing in deep and holding it in his lungs. Focus. Focus.

 

_ Just like I taught you.   _

 

Arthur’s voice in his ear,  _ easy, now, easy,  _ hand lifting John’s wrist a little higher.  Arthur, breathing slow, standing so close John could feel the heat of him.  

 

_ Never even got to kiss you. _

 

They are trying to take everything from John, and it is suddenly very easy to take it back.

 

Time seems to slow down, color washing out until the whole world is painted in shades of grey, focus,  _ focus. _

 

_ Just like that, Marston. _

 

_ We’ll make a gunslinger outta you yet. _

 

Then his gun is empty, and six men are dead, red still swimming through John’s vision as he tugs Arthur up onto his horse.

 

They ride home together with the sun setting behind them, Sean’s raucous laughter echoing through the trees, Arthur’s hands settling low around John’s waist.

 

-

 

They get away clean.  They don’t lose anyone, and apart from the nasty cuts on Arthur’s face and Sean singeing some of his hair off with a poorly aimed fire bottle, everybody is fine.  There’s enough cash and jewelry and bonds to keep the gang fed and happy for a good, long while.

 

The liquor flows freely.  There’s music, like always.  Everyone dances except John, who’s nursing a bottle of rum at the campfire.

 

His hands are still shaking.

 

All he can think about is digging a grave and having to put Arthur in it.  To shovel soil over him. Watch him disappear into the earth. 

 

_ Never even got to kiss you. _

 

He takes a long swig of his rum, lets it burn all the way down into his belly.  Since when did he want to kiss  _ Arthur? _

 

Since always, some treacherous part of his mind supplies— warm with liquor, lonely and reckless.

 

He has always wanted to kiss Arthur— always wanted to put his hands on him.  Pin him down, and keep him there. 

 

Love him till he can’t help but fall apart.

 

Always, but John is good at tucking it away, good at lying to himself.

 

Good at pretending Arthur is only his brother, when he is so much more.

 

The party is starting to wind down, with about half the gang either tucked into their bedrolls or passed out around the camp.  Javier is asleep in front of the fire, sitting up with his guitar in his arms, head lolling forward on his chest. Arthur is on the log next to John, grinning as he takes a drink of whiskey, amused by something Bill says as he staggers past.  The firelight throws strange shadows around them. 

 

Arthur is so goddamn beautiful, flames shining in his eyes, mouth wet with whiskey.  He palms the stray drops away with the back of his hand, busted knuckles scraping over a split lip.

 

John stares with his heart in his throat and his guts tied in knots, liquor making everything soft around the edges.  Arthur catches his gaze for a moment, smiling wider and rolling his eyes at whatever Bill was rambling about before looking away.  He pulls out a cigarette, striking a match on the bottom of his boot. Lifts it to his lips and lights it, tossing the spent match into the campfire, lips pursing around the end as he takes a drag.  The cherry flares, and fades; John feels wild. 

 

He can’t stop watching.  Thinks of Arthur cleaning his gun.  Arthur picking a lock. Sketching in the pages of his journal, lost in the lines; good with his hands, so intent.

 

John thinks about what it’s like to be on the other end of that focus, Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he cleans blood off of John’s face, ready to stitch him back together.  

 

He’s never more real than when Arthur is looking at him that way;  like he is all that matters.

 

He sets his bottle of rum on the ground and pulls his own cigarettes out of his pocket, determination sinking into bones like steel.  His hands don’t shake when he puts one in his mouth.

 

Arthur startles when John leans into his space.  John’s hands come up on either side of their cheeks to block the wind as he meets Arthur’s gaze, and holds it, pressing the end of his cigarette to Arthur’s.  John pulls in air, and then heat, cigarette lighting with a soft orange glow, both of them sitting too close in the dark. Staring, staring.

 

John can’t look away.  He takes one long drag, drawing the smoke down into his lungs before pulling back.  Not enough to give Arthur any space; just enough to breathe out without exhaling right into his face, smoke billowing out into the night.  John lets his cigarette fall to the ground, forgotten. Arthur is very still.

 

It’s so fucking easy.

 

John plucks the cigarette from Arthur’s mouth, tosses it into the fire, and kisses him.  

 

There’s no elegance to it.  John doesn’t have any in him, not even for something like this, but it doesn’t matter.  They’re rough people, and they live rough lives, and John will take these rough kisses without regret.  

 

Arthur makes a low noise in the back of his throat and fumbles his bottle of whiskey.  It lands on the ground at their feet, sloshing liquid into the dirt with a glassy clink.  He inhales sharply through his nose, reeling backwards, but he doesn’t get far; John follows, Arthur’s hand flailing in the air for a moment before settling high on his shoulder.  John’s got one hand fisted in Arthur’s shirt to keep him close, the other laid over his throat for the second time that day.

 

His heart is beating rabbit-fast again, thrumming frantically against John’s palm.  

 

Then his lips part, and he opens, relaxing as John licks into his mouth.  He makes another noise— softer, this time, closer to a moan, and he’s— he’s kissing John  _ back,  _ and it’s everything he’s ever wanted, and— 

 

There’s a discordant twang as Javier falls over sideways, landing on his guitar.  Arthur jerks away, eyes darting over to where Javier is swearing under his breath in slurred Spanish and checking the instrument for damage.  Arthur looks back to John, covering his mouth with one palm and then dragging it down his face.

 

Then he’s gone, standing up from the fire and slinking over to his tent, fast as a magic trick.  John just stares, fingers touching his own mouth in disbelief. The black, suffocating feeling of rejection barely has time to coil in him before a voice cuts through the quiet, only just audible over the roar of blood in his ears.

 

“Well?  You gonna follow him or just sit there slack-jawed, trying to collect flies?”  Hosea asks from behind Javier, gesturing towards Arthur’s tent with a half-empty beer bottle and grinning.

 

John looks over; Arthur’s tent flap is still open, yawning wide where he hasn’t secured it.  Like he’s planning on coming back out again.

 

Or like he’s waiting for someone else to come inside.  

 

John picks up his rum and takes several long, messy swallows to finish it off, tossing the empty bottle down next to Javier.

 

Then he marches off towards Arthur’s tent, Hosea cackling in the background,  _ that’s my Johnny boy!  _

 

His mouth tastes like rum, and smoke, and John can’t fucking breathe.

 

He ducks under the canvas, and slips inside.

  
  



	2. Smoldering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to get this out today. Forgive me for any missed errors.

There’s a lantern hanging from one of Arthur’s tent poles, burning on low, bathing the space in a soft glow.  It isn’t bright, but John still has to blink through it, to let his eyes adjust. He’s been in Arthur’s tent countless times, has seen the pictures tacked up, the newspaper clippings.  A crate that serves as Arthur’s table littered with pencil stubs. Half-burned candles, a tin of gun oil.

 

A flower in a little glass jar.

 

It’s nothing new, but John takes it all in again, fondness spilling over in him like clouds giving up rain.

 

He doesn’t remember a time where he didn’t love Arthur, but it has never felt like  _ this— _ like John might catch fire if he can’t get at Arthur’s skin.

 

Like he can’t take in air unless it’s pulled from Arthur’s mouth.

 

Arthur stands next to his cot, hands loose at his sides, watching John expectantly.  It’s the same way he looks right before he draws on someone— all unspent aggression, a storm brewing in his blood.   Hunger in his eyes, and in his hands, and in his jaw; John understands.

 

He is a lit fuse, sizzling away and ready to explode.

 

“John.”

 

It sounds like a warning.  The voice he uses when John’s about to do something dangerously stupid, but John’s never listened to him before, and he’s certainly not going to start now.

 

This isn’t some poorly planned heist.  He’s not after a handful of silver or a stack of bills.

 

This is Arthur, and John is playing for keeps.

 

He closes the scant distance between them in two quick steps, grabs Arthur by the lapels of his duster, and shoves their lips together.  

 

There is none of the shocked hesitation from before, no tense muscles or surprised gasps.  Arthur groans, and leans into it, hands sinking into John’s hair. John forces his jaw wider, presses his tongue further between Arthur’s lips.  Needs more. Needs it  _ now,  _ and Arthur lets him have it, sitting on his cot and tugging John down with him.  He breaks the kiss when they’re sprawled on top of his bedroll, breathless, eyes darting over John’s face.  

 

“You sure this is what you want?”  Arthur asks, untucking John’s shirt in the back to ease his hands underneath it.  John is alight everywhere their skin touches, noses brushing, Arthur’s breath warm on his face.  He kisses him again, even more desperately, trying to pour all his want into Arthur. Trying to make him understand.

 

_ “Yes,”  _ John hisses into Arthur’s jaw, mouthing at his throat with sharp teeth.  He’s raspy, like he’s lost his voice to the cold, or screamed himself raw, except the only thing that’s eating away at him is need. “Christ, Arthur.  Been wanting it. Been wanting  _ you.” _

 

It comes off so goddamn honest that John wishes he could take it back, but only for a moment.

 

Only until Arthur whines, collapsing further onto the cot as his legs fall open, letting John sink down between them.  Arthur tilts his head to the side to give John more space, fingers in his hair, holding John’s mouth against his neck. John ruts forward helplessly, and Arthur shudders all over.  His knees slip wide, wide, wider, and something comes to life in John, surging furious and molten in his blood.

 

This is how he imagined Arthur— unfolding beneath him, letting him  _ take—  _ but John hadn’t expected it to be so effortless.

 

Hadn’t expected Arthur to go boneless underneath him like he’d been waiting for permission.  

 

Like this is all he wants, too.

 

John sucks a mark into the curve of Arthur’s throat, hands working clumsily at the buckle of his gunbelt.  When he gets it unfastened and tugs Arthur arches up to let John pull it free. John sits up a moment to take off his own, gingerly setting all their weapons on the ground  in a messy pile. He shucks his jacket and vest, pulling his shirt off over his head. Arthur makes no move to take off his clothes and John frowns down at him, hesitating. Wondering if he’s changed his mind, and John gets a sick, twisting feeling in his guts.  A brief swell of hurt, strong enough to have his breath hitching.

 

Then Arthur takes John’s hands and guides them to the buttons on his shirt, cheeks flushing dark, eyes finding John’s before sliding away.  Shy, almost, and it takes a long, surreal stretch of silence and stillness before he puts it together.

 

Arthur wants John to undress him.  

 

John is burning out of his skin.

 

He buries his face in Arthur’s neck, and fists his hands in Arthur’s shirt, fingers flying as he works it open.  One of the buttons pops off in his haste, skittering over the dirt and rolling outside the tent. Arthur doesn’t even notice, rocking his hips into John’s with breathy little exhales, palm over his mouth to muffle the sound.  John wraps his fingers around Arthur’s wrist, and eases hand away— needs to hear everything, see everything, feel everything. Then he sinks his teeth in the soft skin just under Arthur’s collar, and sucks.

 

The noise Arthur makes is loud and obscene and John wants to spend the rest of his life coaxing it out of him again and again.

 

He moves back to kiss Arthur’s lips some more, jerking his duster down until it catches around his biceps.  Arthur’s still dressed, and that’s suddenly so frustrating that John wants to scream. 

 

It’s awkward getting his clothes off.  Neither of them is willing to stop kissing, and Arthur isn’t even trying to help, but John doesn’t mind.  Just wrestles him out of all his layers; his duster, his vest, his shirt, John’s lips sore from the scrape of Arthur’s stubble, the taste of copper in his mouth where Arthur’s mouth is bleeding again.  The buttons of Arthur’s worn-out union suit yield easily to John’s tugging, the thin cotton unsnapping down to Arthur’s waist and laying his chest bare. John works that off him, too, pushing it down his arms until it’s nothing but a tangle of fabric around his hips, the rest of it disappearing into his jeans.

 

It would be a simple thing to get off like this; grinding into Arthur, hands on his skin, Arthur breathing heavy beneath him.  The whiskey sharp taste of Arthur’s mouth, the shivery clutch of his hands. It would be easy— Arthur is  _ so easy— _  but it’s not enough.  John wants more. 

 

Wants everything Arthur will allow him to have, for as long as he’ll allow him to have it.

 

Wants to tuck Arthur away, and have him always.

 

John puts a palm on Arthur’s thigh and slides it lower, lifting his knee so he can take off Arthur’s boot.  It takes some tugging— John swears under his breath as he yanks and twists— but eventually it comes free, falling down beside the cot with a thud.  The second boot is easier, and Arthur’s a little more cooperative after that, helping John work his legs free of his jeans and union suit. It isn’t graceful, but it’s fast, and it’s necessary.

 

Then Arthur is naked underneath him, pink all the way down to his chest, cock dripping onto the thick trail of hair on his belly.  Muscled all over, a little on the lean side right now. He’s seen Arthur without clothes on before, hundreds of times, but this is different.  

 

This is just for  _ John. _

 

He takes a moment and stares, tracing over old scars with his eyes.  A knife wound on Arthur’s side. A bullet hole in his calf. A nasty set of gashes high on one thigh where he’d gotten tangled in some barbed wire.  Every imperfect inch of him, all laid out for John’s hands.

 

All waiting for his mouth.

 

Arthur eases his legs further apart as John watches, arms over his head, fingers curled around the metal frame of the cot— a clear invitation.  It’s more alluring than any come hither look he’s ever gotten from a working girl, hiking up her skirts, showing off skin. John chokes on air, palming the underside of Arthur’s thighs and trying not to combust as Arthur hitches them higher, nodding towards the table beside them.

 

“There’s… oil, on the crate there,” Arthur says, bright hot but unflinching.  

 

Embarrassed, but still making himself vulnerable.  John takes a steadying breath.

 

He grabs the tin of gun oil and unscrews the cap, pouring some over his fingers before setting it back down.  Then he’s pressing into Arthur’s space again, fingers nudging messy between Arthur’s cheeks. He kisses him some more, softer than before, less urgently.  

 

John hadn’t thought things through enough to be worried about this part, but now anxiety creeps up unbidden.  He’s fucked girls before, fucked them like _ this, _ but John has never wanted a man the way he wants Arthur.  Not badly enough to risk trying something, anyway. It can’t be all that different, he thinks, but he isn’t entirely sure.  Doesn’t want to hurt Arthur, even if he’s dying to get inside him, feel the tight heat of him everywhere. Arthur doesn’t seem worried, but John has seen him run into a hail of bullets without so much as a frown, so that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

 

Arthur will let himself be hurt to make someone he loves happy every single time, and John can’t have that right now.

 

Won’t have it.

 

“You done this before?” John asks, feeling stupid and trying not to let it show.  Arthur huffs, grinning and grinding down into John’s touch.

 

“You ain’t?”  

 

It’s teasing.  Disbelieving, almost.  John slips his fingers in— Arthur takes two of them with sigh, relaxing around John as he works them deeper and then pulls back, fucking steadily into him.

 

“Yeah but not… not like this, not… just tell me if I hurt you, alright?” 

 

Arthur outright laughs.

 

“Awfully confident there, Marston.”

 

The implication is clear, and John scowls even though Arthur is clearly joking, smiling and warm and gorgeous beneath him.  

 

John curls his fingers as he draws them out the next time.  It’s mostly an accident, but it has the grin falling off Arthur’s face as jerks, arching into John’s hand with a rough exhale.  Arthur tucks his face into John’s throat, hips rolling urgently to coax John’s fingers into moving. He does it again, and again, Arthur’s clinging to him tighter with every pass; grabbing at his hair, scratching at his skin.

 

“Don’t call me that.  Call me John,” he says, words coming out more breathy than he’d like, more pleading.  Marston is who John is when he’s screwing up on a job, or sleeping through his chores.  It isn’t who he wants to be right now, nosing into Arthur’s hair, pulling him apart with wet fingers and mouthing bruises into him everywhere he can reach.

 

“John,” Arthur obliges, heels digging into John’s back, nails scraping over his shoulder blades.  “C’mon now, just… quit teasin’ and get on with it.”

 

John unbuttons his jeans with his free hand, shoving them just low enough on his hips that he can tug himself out.  

 

“Alright, alright, hold your horses.”

 

He’s mercilessly hard, and John pulls his fingers out of Arthur, shivering as he nudges the crown of his cock against the slick clutch of Arthur’s ass.  Presses, and groans as he sinks in; easy, easy.

 

Arthur is so fucking easy for him.

 

He takes John all the way down with a sound John can feel more than hear.  His forehead is shoved into Arthur’s throat, hips jerking forward instinctively even as he tries to give Arthur a minute to relax.  John can’t help it. 

 

Arthur’s cock is hard between them and he smells like good tobacco and bad whiskey and he’s everything John needs; he’s been waiting for this since before he knew what it was he really wanted from Arthur.  The terrifying width of it, the dizzying breadth.

 

Arthur’s muffling his mouth with his palm again, and John takes both his wrists in his hands, and presses them into the cot over his head.  Fucks into him again, Arthur’s whine beautiful in his ears, body gone pliant and yielding under John, and it’s perfect in a way that makes John terrified.

 

_ “God,  _ Arthur,” he says, because that’s all he can manage, but it is viciously inadequate.

 

All John can do it hope Arthur feels it, too.

 

“John.”  It’s quiet.  Ragged.

 

John doesn’t last long.

 

He grinds his hips into Arthur at a frenzied pace, sliding his hands up Arthur’s wrists and over his palms.  Laces their fingers together, and kisses him, swollen lips and sharp teeth and warm skin.

 

John doesn’t last long, but that’s okay, because Arthur shivers through his orgasm right alongside him, both of them making noise like they’re breaking and clinging so tight it stings.  When the haze clears, ringing gone quiet in his ears and spots floating out of his vision, John gingerly pulls out, letting Arthur take every ounce of his weight. Arthur grunts but doesn’t otherwise complain, and they both lay there tangled up and drowsy, chests heaving.

 

“We ain’t pretending this didn’t happen,” John says finally, voice breaking through the quiet. 

 

There’s no way they weren’t overhead— Arthur was  _ loud,  _ and his cot was ancient, creaking with every shift of their weight.  Everyone who isn’t sleeping  _ knows,  _ even without the hickeys John has left all over Arthur.  He isn’t worried. They’ll tease, and they’ll laugh, but no one’s gonna be too much of an asshole.

 

What Dutch’s boys get up to in the dark together isn’t anyone’s business but their own, and they all damn well know it.

 

Even if no one had been watching, if no one had been listening, if no one noticed the marks on Arthur’s throat or the two of them stumbling out of his tent together, it didn’t matter.

 

John didn’t want to go back to the way things were before; the unspoken tension, the restless teasing.

 

The sharp ache of loneliness that never eased, or ebbed, or faded.

 

Arthur has been petting his fingers through the wild strands of John’s hair; they still for a moment, then sink in deeper.  He kisses John on the temple.

 

“Alright,” Arthur says, repositioning his legs so that John has more room, nosing into him again.  “Alright.”

 

There’s a promise in the tone, if not the words.  It’s enough for now.

 

The cot is too small for two grown men, but neither of them are inclined to move, and it isn’t long before whiskey and adoration have John drifting into sleep.

 

-

 

John wakes up to laughter.

 

It’s not his own, nor is it too close, but it is loud.  He winces at the sound of Sean and Javier howling from outside Arthur’s tent, Sean’s nasal screeching, Javier’s helpless snorts.  

 

“If I gotta come out there to shut y’all up, you’re gonna regret it.  Get, now.” Arthur’s voice is full of gravel, rough with sleep and exhaustion as he bellows at them; John buries his face in his chest, and makes a small noise of complaint.  “Shhh, it’s alright. Go back to sleep.”

 

John doesn’t, but he pretends well enough that Arthur doesn’t question it, and they lay there together listening to the camp come to life around them.  Arthur lets John kiss him, lets John hold him. Lets John get a hand around them both until they’re coming over his knuckles, voices muffled in each other’s mouths.

 

The sun is too bright when they stumble out together, rumpled and filthy, Arthur covered in hickeys his collar doesn’t hide.  The cut on his cheek is scabbed and vicious, but his hair falls over the scrape on his temple, and his split lip is only swollen now because of all John’s kisses.

 

Arthur is worse for wear, but he’s smiling, even if he can’t quite meet John’s eyes.

 

He meets his mouth when no one is around, fast and chaste and barely there, and John will take it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things, or come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en).


End file.
